Scratching the Surface
by msgenevieve447
Summary: She's not looking at his mouth. She's looking through thirty-year old town records. She's definitely not looking at Killian Jones' mouth and thinking of the last time he'd kissed her. Inspired by the way those two adorable idiots were making eyes at each other in the Sheriff's station at the start of 405.


She's _not_ looking at his mouth.

She's not.

She's looking through thirty-year old town records. She's definitely not looking at Killian Jones' mouth and thinking of the last time he'd kissed her.

She's searching for any mention of Elsa's sister Anna in Storybrooke's history. She's definitely not dealing with any ridiculous issues like feeling breathless or churned up in the stomach every time she remembers just how damned _good _that last kiss had been.

_And maybe if she keeps telling herself that_, Emma thinks in faint despair,_it'll make it true_. Right now, though, she's fighting a losing battle.

They'd had their first date four days ago, and tonight they're alone in the station for the first time since that night. David has headed home for a quick dinner, promising to return with Elsa and some takeout after spending some quality time with Snow and Neal. At some point, the late afternoon has become evening, and Emma supposes she should switch on more lights, but the lamp on her desk is bright enough to read by.

Despite the fact that she has the feeling this weird anticipation between them could probably be seen from space, Killian is relaxing company. For a long time, the only sound in the room is the turning of pages and the rain beating softly on the windows, then she sighs loudly and shuts the record book with an irritated thud. "This is pointless."

Killian leans back in his seat (he'd pulled up a chair to the side of her desk rather than sit in David's spot, which has only made her attempts to ignore the fact that she really, _really_ wants to kiss him even more futile) and drums his fingers on the record book he's been scanning. "Like swabbing the deck of a sinking ship, perhaps?"

She smiles, wondering how she ever got through the day without a clichéd pirate joke or three. "Exactly." Her smile fades as she remembers the enormity of the puzzle they're trying to crack. "I feel like we're just stumbling around in the dark here." She runs a hand through her hair, then does her best to stretch the stiff muscles in her neck. "Until I get that copy of my foster records, we've got no idea when or even _where_ I lived in that woman's house, and the clerk of the court said it could take up to two weeks."

She's flat-out bitching now, she knows that, but she's tired and frustrated and there's a chunk of her freaking memory missing. Not only that, it's been four days since she's been properly kissed and there's an irritating prickle between her shoulder blades that won't go away, no matter how many times she wriggles her spine against the back of her chair.

The little things can matter as much as the big things sometimes.

"You'll find the answers, Swan, you always do." He's watching her, a half-smile playing about his lips, and she realises that he's smiling at her fidgeting in her chair like a five-year old. "Allow me, love." Rolling his chair forward, he leans close enough for his chest to brush against her shoulder, then she feels the curve of his hook on her back. "Is that the spot?"

Her mouth goes dry, and her pulse immediately picks up speed. It's such an intimate thing for him to do that she almost moves away, but she doesn't. "A little lower."

Holding her gaze with his, he moves his hook down her back until he reaches the bottom of her jacket, then she feels the cool brush of metal sliding up her spine through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. He's slipped his hook underneath her jacket, and again, the intimacy of the gesture is enough to bring a flush to her cheeks. "Higher?"

She swallows hard. "Yes."

He gives her that little half-smile again before gliding his hook up her spine. She finds herself holding her breath, the sound of the rain against the windows seeming to echo the rush of her pulse in her ears. When the curve of his hook reaches the spot where it feels as though there's a nettle stuck to her skin, she lets out a noise that sounds a lot more obscene than it should. "Uh, _there_." She hears him chuckle as she closes her eyes, bowing her head and giving herself over to the simple pleasure that only comes with having an annoying itch thoroughly scratched. "God, that feels good."

"I do aim to please," he tells her in a dark, dangerous voice, then he starts to slowly move his hook over her back, up and down, side to side. It's a lazy, gentle caress that should be soothing, but all it does is make her unbearably aware of how close they're sitting and that she can feel the subtle heat of his body and smell the spicy tang of his skin. When he strokes the hook down her side, she sighs with delight, and she hears him suck in a sharp breath. "Especially for such an appreciative audience," he adds in an unsteady whisper, and there's something so vulnerable about the need in his voice that has her lifting her head and opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

His hook grows still beneath her jacket, resting at the small of her back as they stare at each other. His eyes have darkened to the colour of sapphires, and his breath is coming short, just like hers. She sees that the tips of his ears are pink, then her gaze drops to his mouth and she's _gone. _Desire blazes through her like a firestorm, and she's moving towards him even as he's reaching for her.

The pile of files next to her elbow falls to the floor in a papery waterfall as he pulls her into his arms, but she doesn't care, doesn't care about anything except the fact that she's climbed into his lap and he's finally kissing her, his mouth hot and slick and everything that's haunted her dreams for the last four days.

His hand is buried in her hair, fingertips kneading her scalp as his mouth moves over hers, and again she feels a moan rise in her throat. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she arches against him, the weight of their bodies moving his chair backwards, adding to the feeling of losing control. And she wants it, wants to lose to control, wants to go up in flames while hanging onto him for dear life.

She's not the only one. He tears his mouth away from hers, her name like a gruff prayer on his lips, then he's pushing her jacket off her shoulders, kissing every new inch of skin he exposes. Breathless, Emma takes matters into her own hands (no pun intended) and her jacket falls to the floor with a muted whoosh, then his mouth is on hers again and she can't think, can't breathe, can't pretend she doesn't want this. She wants him, wants much more than making out fully clothed, and even though she knows their privacy will be short-lived tonight, she's tired of playing it safe.

Pleasure shivers through her as he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses down her throat, along her collar bone and finally the swell of her cleavage, his beard scraping against her skin, making every hair on her body stand on end. Her nipples are tight and aching and arousal is pulsing between her thighs and if she doesn't feel more of him against her soon, she might just go a little crazy. She runs one hand down the front of his waistcoat (it's got even more freaking buttons than his old one did), then dips the other between his legs, pressing her palm against the hard heat of him.

_That _shocks him into speech, his body arching into her touch even as he protests. "Bloody _hell_, love," he grits out between clenched teeth, his eyes glittering as he looks up at her. "You're going to kill me before I've even had the honour of gazing upon your loveliness properly."

"You can see everything properly another time," she tells him, pulling her hand away and rocking her hips into his, sucking in her breath when the thick thrust of his erection presses hard into her groin. Her skin is hot and itchy (so much for him helping, this has only made it so much worse) and she's one roll of the hips away from falling into pieces. "_Jesus."_

His hand is around the nape of her neck before she can say another word, pulling her mouth down to his for a bruising, almost frantic kiss. His hooked arm is around her waist, pulling her impossibly close, and she's panting and impatient, bracing her booted feet on the legs of his chair for more leverage, rocking against him, pushing and rubbing and _fuck_ she's almost there, and she wants to take him with her, a comfortable bed and being naked can wait, she _needs_ this, needs to set them both free from this endless circling pattern of frustration.

She's just about to grab two handfuls of his hair and pull his mouth to her breasts when he gasps out one strangled word. "Headlights."

With her body firmly in charge, it takes a few seconds for her brain to catch up. "What?"

He cups her face in his hand, his breath hot against her lips, and she can feel the tension trembling through his body. "Your father's truck has just pulled up outside."

She's _so_ close, it's almost painful, and she cannot believe how much David's timing sucks. "Fuck."

"Not tonight, I'm afraid," he whispers with a tight smile, and she knows he's in a bad way because there's not a hint of innuendo in his blunt words.

"They've got to go home sometime," she mutters, the presses her forehead against his. She'd heard somewhere that scratching an itch just makes you itch even more, but she's never experienced it quite so vividly. "God, this has just made it ten times worse."

He doesn't bother asking what she means by 'it'. They both know. "I disagree, love." She can feel the laughter that ripples through him, and her belly clenches all over again. "I fail to see any downside to what's just transpired."

The sound of car doors being slammed has her scrambling off his lap onto shaky legs, but not before she flashes him a smug smile, because he sounds as though he's trying to breathe underwater and she can _see_ that he's in no fit state to greet her father. "That's great, but you'd better make yourself decent if you want to live long enough to see everything properly, as you so charmingly put it."

"Far be it from me to scandalise your family and friends." His slow grin as he adjusts the fit of his trousers is filled with enough wicked promise to make her seriously consider locking the front door of the station. "But any time you have an itch you want scratched, Swan, I'm at your service."

Her cheeks are burning as she reaches down to pick up her jacket from the floor, and she's very glad of the swing of her hair hiding her face. "You'll be the first to know, trust me."

A moment later, when David and Elsa walk through the door carrying bags of takeout food, they find the Sheriff's department as silent as Belle's library, the only sounds the turning of pages and the rain against the windows. If either of them notice that Emma and Killian are very carefully not looking at each other and the tips of Captain Hook's ears are still very pink, neither of them say a word.


End file.
